I’m in love the second I step inside. Every surface seems to be covered with some sort of instrument. In a room off to the right, there are dozens of electric guitars lined up neatly on stands, and behind them sit a row of equally gleaming acoustic guitars.

Beyond the guitars is a room full of drum-related gear. Off to the left is an area full of pianos and keyboards, and just behind that, there’s an organ and two harps. There’s a small wind instrument room, and there’s another room filled with trumpets, trombones, tubas and sousaphones.

I stop in the sheet music section and pick up the first book I see. It’s a piano book that includes the Beatles’ greatest hits, and as I absently flip through “Hey Jude” and “Come Together” and “Drive My Car,” my eyes dart around the store. I feel certain I’ll recognize my father the instant I see him.

“Can I help you?” says a male voice behind me, startling me. I whirl around.

A pimply-faced guy (not that I should talk, now that I’m sporting two enormous zits myself) in a white collared shirt and a nametag that says ZACH looks expectantly at me.

“Er, no, I’m fine,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Zach asks eagerly. “Because I’m very familiar with our entire sheet music selection. I’m a musician myself.”

I stare at him for a moment, willing him to go away. When he doesn’t, I sigh. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he persists.

“Is the owner of the store in?” I ask. Zach pales a bit.

“No,” he says quickly. He holds up his hands defensively, palms facing me. “But please don’t report me. I’m just trying to help you. Honest.”

“I’m not going to report you,” I say. “I just wanted to, um, ask him something.”

I suspect I don’t sound very convincing, but Zach no longer appears to be looking at me with any suspicion.

“Well, Mr. Mecham isn’t in today,” Zach says. My heart swells at the mention of my dad’s name. “But I’m sure that anything he can answer, I can answer for you too,” he adds proudly.

Not quite, I feel like saying. I doubt you can answer whether my father still loves me. I doubt you can answer why he let my mom take me away. I doubt you can answer whether or not I can come live with him for a while or whether we can be a family again. But instead, I settle for making a random music request.

“Okay. Do you have any sheet music for . . .,” I pause and wonder if it’ll be too obvious if I say my own name. Ah, what the heck. Zach obviously doesn’t recognize me anyhow. “. . . for Star Beck?” I conclude.